My name is Hillary Wilson. In my business career, I have provided a service, a
very exclusive service, indeed, a very exclusive AND unique service. People pay
me to give them pain! No, I am not a professional dominatrix. I accept no
clients who expect me to diminish them. I will agree there are elements of my
service which are similar to what the professional dominatrices do, but the
major difference is that my role is to support my clients achieve orgasm at
their pain plateau. Indeed, I will often encourage my clients to exceed the
plain plateau they thought they had. Yes, what I do is dangerous but before I
entered my present profession, I was a neurosurgeon. Hence, not only am I able
to care for the needs of my clients, I also can competently examine them for an
analysis of their health to see if they can undergo their planned ordeal. There
have also been occasions when I have been able to advise my clients of ways to
improve their ordeal as well as to accentuate their feelings. Why did a
neurosurgeon drop her practice and enter the field I am in? First of all, I got
tired of the bullshit of the medical game. I saw too many quacks get away with
varying degrees of incompetence, and nobody punished them. I also made a lot of
money, so much that I simply retired. Well, maybe retired is too strong; more
correctly, I semi-retired. Many of my clients have become patients as well. This
works out well for both of us. It is true that my service is very expensive. It
is that so that only the most serious pain seekers can afford me. This
eliminates the simple thrill seekers who might be troublesome at some time in
the future. But there are ways for those who cannot afford me to gain their
fulfillment through a sort of scholarship fund. I'll explain that later. My
business is strictly referral. Only an introduction from an existing client will
even get me to talk to a potential client. When we agree to meet, it's done in a
very public place in some large city. I carry an electronic device which will
identify any nearby recording device or radio transmitter. Only once did I
detect any such device and my client who had referred the potential client had
been hoodwinked. Even so, I punished her by abandoning her for a full year. When
an agreement is reached, I tell the new client to meet me in Caracas, Venezuela.
I do have to do my work outside the country and Venezuela is just right. I have
a coffee plantation, and nearby, in a totally private location, I have my pain
palace. The client is told to never attempt to locate my establishment, and this
goes for all my clients, not just new ones, but the established ones too. They
then sign a self-incriminating document which would make it just about totally
unlikely that any would disclose me. When we leave Caracas, we do it in my
luxury fitted van (I tried a limo but the limo just couldn't stand up to the
terrain). We drive for an hour into the jungle and, by use of darkened windows
and strategic turning, I lose most of them quickly. Nevertheless, at a moment, I
put a blinding hood over their heads so that they can't see a thing. We then
stop at a remote jungle airstrip where I pilot a small plane the remaining
distance to my coffee plantation. The final location, when we reach it, may not
even be in Venezuela. The client is then taken from the plane, with the helmet
still on, to another van and is driven the final twenty miles to the pain
palace. In this way, they don't even have the chance to see the airplane or note
its markings. When we arrive at the pain palace, a regimen is started that will
lead up to the particular pain event within one to three days. My annual income
is never less than one million per year, and all that is tax free. Well now,
after all the introductory remarks, you might wonder how I came to get into such
a business. You already know why I left the medical profession, but my entry to
my present field was sort of bizarre. A man with whom I had been keeping company
asked me to check him out one day. With both of us nude, I completed the check
up, although it took a couple hours with time out for various erotic activities.
When I pronounced him fit, he pressed me to test his heart. I listened again,
but found nothing. He insisted he had to know if he was likely to have a heart
attack under intense stress. I told him I simply could not guarantee that, but
if he wanted to come by the office, I could do an EKG and do some other tests
that would identify his propensity for such an attack. Two days later, I did the
tests and again pronounced him fit. I then asked him why he wanted to know this.
At first, he was evasive; but, when I became angry with his simplistic
nonsensical answers, he finally confessed that he was about to have a flogging.
A what, I asked. He repeated, a flogging. He then went on to add that he was
into serious pain, and he was going to undergo a flogging to take him to his
limit. I knew about masochists. I hadn't ever expected to meet one of such
intensity. He explained that before the person who was to flog him would do it,
he had to produce a doctor's written certificate as to the condition of his
health. I was somewhat concerned with this turn of events. I really had no idea
of the effect of a serious flogging on the physiology of a human being. I knew
that people had been flogged as late as the nineteenth century and most of them
had not died, but I was unaware of the intensity. And I was convinced my friend
wanted a very intense flogging. On a whim, I said I would sign the certificate
but I would have to go along just in case anything went wrong. He starred at me,
and then smilingly agreed. The arrangements were made and two nights later, I
found myself in a country home. The owners were a couple. Both were dressed in
leather. My friend presented his certificate and introduced me. They wanted to
know what I wanted to have done to me, but I assured them I was just there to
observe my patient in the event of anything unforeseen happening. They shrugged.
Very quickly, my friend was stripped and then tied, face in, to an upright post
in the middle of the room. When he was secured, the woman brought forward a
cat-of-nine-tails. The man took it, and then began to flog my friend. The first
stroke left angry red marks. The second stroke brought flecks of blood. I sat
there, with some apprehension, and even more amazement, as my friend was struck
forty times by the fearsome instrument. When he passed out, she was immediately
at his side. After several minutes, and he had been released, he was comfortable
enough, but he laid on his stomach. After a drink of whiskey, he said he was
ready for the rest. I was shocked. It was unbelievable. He got to his feet and
again embraced the post. He was again secured. The flogging re-commenced. This
time it took only twenty strokes before he passed out. When he came to, he asked
what I thought. I knew he didn't want me to tell him I thought he was crazy. I
wouldn't have done that anyway since I knew he had gone into this with his eyes
open. Ordinarily, he would have stayed at the home in the country until the next
day but he asked if I would drive him home, which I did, with him laying and
kneeling in the back. Back at his home, I treated his back. It was a real mess.
Several of the cuts were deep enough to scab over and I thought two of them
might leave scars. He reminded me I hadn't answered his question about what I
thought. Stalling, I asked him where he had met the couple, and he told me
through a mutual friend, the name of whom also amazed me.
Part 2
I stayed the weekend. The fuck that nite was incredible. I knew he was
hurting, but it seemed to add to his staying power. I know I had two huge cums
while he fucked me before he let himself go. Later, I commented on his staying
power, and he laughed that it was always like that when he was whipped. He
admitted to several sessions at the country house before but none of those had
been as good as this one, nor anywhere as near severe. Finally, I asked him how
much he had paid. He laughingly questioned if I was interested in getting into
the business but I simply blushed. He then told me an incredibly high sum. Once
again, he reminded me that I had yet to tell him what I thought about it. I
bought additional time by asking him what in particular he expected me to say.
Laughingly, he said, well, for openers, have you ever seen a bed mate of yours
whipped before. I laughed, and admitted that I hadn't. I told him that I didn't
think he wanted me to patronize him by simply saying that how he chose to get
his pleasure was his own business. Instead, I told him that each of seeks our
pleasures in our own ways. Pleasure is an elusive thing, and if any of us find
tried and reliable ways to get pleasure, then we should not be concerned what
others might think. He nodded; then added that most people would not understand
him; and I agreed with that. Worse, he said, many people might stick it out
once, but that they would never want anything to do with a person into it again.
I told him that if that was worrying him, the fuck the night before was too good
for me to not want to see him again. That evening was a turning point for me.
The thought had been planted in my head. A couple months later, my friend asked
me when he would be strong enough to undergo another flogging. I checked him out
and said anytime he wanted to do it. He asked if I wanted to go along this time
too. I said no, I didn't want to go along, but I would do the flogging myself if
he was willing to put up with my inexperience. For several moments, he said
nothing, then he said we would have to buy me the tools of the trade. I agreed,
but where I asked would we find a cat-of-nine-tails. Easy, he replied, and that
night we were shopping in a store that would delight any fetishist. We bought
all kinds of gear, some of which I recognized, some others things I figured out,
but some I had no idea what they were supposed to accomplish. Two nights later,
I was at his place. He lived in a house, somewhat set apart from his neighbors.
I had dressed as he had asked: white silk, front-buttoning silk blouse with no
bra; jodhpurs with riding boots and kid gloves. He showed me into his living
room, which had a cathedral ceiling. In the middle of the room was the upright
whipping post. We had a couple drinks during which he suggested I use the paddle
on his ass first to get the feel of swinging it. Then, a small tawse on his ass
after which I was to move up to his back. When I got the feel of that, then I
was to use the cat, increasing the force as I felt more comfortable in doing so.
Naturally, I was concerned that I do it right, and I worried I might seriously
hurt him. Reading my mind, he said I would learn quickly and that if I was
worried I might hurt him, it would be better if we didn't start. He said that
the first strokes were always super painful but after he got into the session,
he welcomed the strokes and it would be most unsatisfactory if I found myself
unable to go on once we had started. I nodded, and said that while I couldn't
guarantee what might happen, I was committed to carrying it off. Beyond that, I
couldn't say, and it was up to him to stop now or go on. In answer, he took off
his clothes and went to embrace the post. Following his directions, I then tied
him to the post. Twice he insisted I draw the ropes tighter. Finally, it was
time for me to lay on the first stroke. Flexing the paddle in my hand, I studied
the target. Then I swung. There was a loud thwack, but he didn't even flinch. I
studied his ass, and then hit him again. Still no reaction, so I hit him ten
more times, very rapidly. When I finally stopped, I was panting, his ass was
red, but he still hadn't given any indication that he wanted me to stop or that
it was too much. I took the tawse and began to work on his ass. As I swung it, I
grew more confidant and so I began to hit his back. Then, only a few strokes, I
threw down the tawse and took up the cat. I knew I could do it! A thin bead of
perspiration had formed on my upper lip and I had become slightly breathless;
but, since I already knew he could take it, I really began to swing that cat.
Although my first few strokes were somewhat tentative, with my knew found
confidence, I began to lean into the task. By now, sweat had soaked through my
blouse so I simply took it off. When I was satisfied with the tempo, I began to
watch him closely. When he appeared to be weakening, I slowed the strokes and
let up slightly. Then, when he would revive, I would pick up the pace and
increase my effort. In this way, I took him to eighty strokes before he said he
had enough. I must have been quite a sight, swinging that whip with my tits
bouncing from side to side. I left him tied to the post and quickly checked him
out. Other than an accelerated pulse, there was no indication of distress. I
decided to try something so I told him he would get an additional five strokes.
He gasped and I told him to try to do it. Instinctively, I had hit on my gold
mine of success: the encouragement for the client to try to go a little past
what they thought was their limit. After the five additional strokes, I
suggested a further five, which he handled, but he declined to go further. I let
him down, cared for his back, and then sucked his cock. It was incredible.
Later, after a rest, he ate my cunt for an hour. My steps from my medical
practice to my coffee plantation and pain palace in Venezuela took six months I
was in business.
Part 3
My first client was a referral from my friend. Because of my relationship
with my friend, I wasn't especially careful with this second client; but,
afterward, while he was recovering, he warned me against being so careless ever
again, even when the client was a referral from the person I trusted most.
Anyway, client 2 had a very simple request. He wanted a large enema. I was quite
surprised for that seemed a relatively simple request. I said as much, but he
smiled and said he wanted two gallons. At that, I was shocked. As a doctor, I
knew anatomy, and I had never heard of anyone who could hold that much enema. He
reassured me that he had a two gallon enema three times before, and had suffered
no ill effects. I shrugged and told him to prepare himself. He knelt on the
table, and then bent forward until his forehead was on the table also. He then
had me tie his hands to his ankles. He then told me to fill him up, chuckling
somewhat nervously. I noticed that his cock was fully erect. I greased his
ass-hole, and then filled an enema bag with two quarts of warm water. He
suggested I might want to hang it on a higher post than I had it so that the
water would have a greater pressure to force itself into his intestines. I did
so. Then I pushed the bardahl nozzle into his ass-hole and pumped it up to lock
it in place. I then opened the clamp, and watched the first of what was to
become eight quarts of water flowing into his ass. As the bag would begin to
thin out, indicating the fluid had run into him, I added additional quarts. When
six quarts had flowed into him, I stopped the flow and inquired how he felt. He
said he felt very full; but, when I asked how full, he asked how much I had put
into him. When I told him six, he grunted and told me to flip the switch again.
I did, and soon, I had put the eighth quart in the bag. He appeared to be in
some distress, taking great breaths, but since he made no request, I did not
stop the flow. At last the bag was empty. I told him so, and he exhaled with
some relief. I then asked him, what happened then. He told me he held it as long
as he could, and then I had to release him so he could go shit. I thought there
should be something more to this so I began to gently rub his ass cheeks, and
tickle his balls. He started to moan, finally saying he was enjoying himself too
much, that he was going to cum. I kept up what I was doing, and soon his cock
was shooting semen. When he finished, he asked if he might be un-tied so that he
could go shit. Instead, I asked him if he wanted to try for a new level. When he
replied that he was in no condition to object to whatever I wanted to try, I
knew that he was interested. The room we were in had a tile floor and the table
was steel, with a padded cushion. I removed my clothes and then greased up my
right hand. I then removed the bardahl nozzle. He started to squirt immediately,
but I put my fist to his ass hole, and began to insinuate my fingers to his
ass-hole. He gasped, but beyond wiggling a little, said and did nothing. I
pressed first two fingers into his ass-hole, and then a third. He was leaking
from the ass all the time, but the flow was slow. Finally, I had all four
fingers in his ass. I then put my thumb tight against my palm, and began to push
my fingers in. He moaned loudly, but still made no objection. With steady
pressure, I managed to push my hand into his ass, over my thumb knuckle. I then
spread my fingers a bit. I could feel all the water in his rectum, plus a turd,
but I pushed further. My hand was now into his ass as far as my wrist. I had
paused frequently, but when I was in to my wrist, he asked how far, and when I
told him to my wrist, he gasped. I then asked if he wanted me to go further. In
reply, he literally pushed back against my hand, so I pushed hard. I knew I was
in dangerous territory now. A tear in the intestines could be fatal. Still, I
decided to push further. At last, when my hand was in half way between my wrist
and elbow, I stopped. Then I pulled out a bit, and then began to push and
withdraw with a gentle motion. He had another cum. After fifteen minutes, I
withdrew my hand. He shit out the whole enema. He offered to clean it up, but I
declined, saying there were servants for that. It was after he had cleaned
himself (and I had cleaned myself) that he gave me the advice. But he also
affirmed my feelings about myself by saying I had taken him to new levels.
Part 4
My third client was a husband and wife team. The wife explained her
husband wanted a whipping, and she couldn't do it, but she had heard I would. I
agreed, but I asked why she couldn't bring herself to do it. She tried to
convince me she didn't want to hurt him. But, I asked, wasn't her refusal a form
of hurt. She admitted she hadn't looked at it that way. I told her to consider
it and then prepared her husband. I learned he had never had a serious whipping,
so it was agreed I would proceed slowly. The first twenty strokes were with a
paddle. He handled that easily. I knew he felt it, but I also knew that all but
those with the lowest of pain thresholds could handle that sort of paddling.
While I was doing the paddling, his wife asked if she might watch. After a half
hour of rest, during which I left them alone, I returned and began to use the
tawse. This was more severe and his ass began to shift from side to side. He
also let out with a cute little squeak a couple times. Again, I left them alone
for a half hour and, when I returned this time, I used the riding crop and he
frequently moaned loudly. I looked sideways at his wife and saw that she was in
no way put-off by what she was witnessing, rather she seemed to be avidly
interested. After the next half hour rest, I used the cat, and began to work on
his back as well as his ass. He moaned and groaned, and even screamed once. His
wife had leaned forward, and she was breathing heavily. This time, when I
finished the twenty strokes, I just dropped the cat and walked out. I waited for
an hour before I returned this time. The whip was in her hand, and it was clear
she had just delivered a stroke. She blushed but I told her to continue, and she
did. She was obviously inexperienced, but she loved him and I knew she would
learn. That night, at supper, her husband was definitely in pain, but they both
were all smiles. I knew that they had found themselves, and that they had
celebrated before supper with a good fuck. I said as much, and she, with little
embarrassment, nodded. Then she added that I had opened the door for them, that
she had come to understand his need, and would meet it. Then I surprised her by
asking her about her own needs. She stammered about not having a need but I said
bullshit. So she shyly told me she wanted to eat my cunt. I asked if she wanted
her husband to watch or not. At this, he chimed in that he most certainly wanted
to watch, but he wanted to be restrained. We went to a bedroom (I refused to
ever use my own bedroom with a client) and she tied her husband to a stout
chair, placed at the side of the bed. I then slipped out of my clothes and laid
on the bed, legs spread. She knelt between my legs and began to gently tongue
me. It took her a while, but she eventually took me to a nice orgasm. They have
become regular clients. On their last visit, I whipped her, and she enjoyed that
too.
Part 5
Client 5 was my first female client and was destined to become both my friend
and my most adventuresome client. Following my more cautious approach which I
had adopted following the urging of client 2, I met client 5 at a neutral sight.
It was a subdued Japanese restaurant where we had our own private room. She was
there waiting when I arrived. As was the custom, we had both left our shoes at
the door. While I dressed in an elegant but conservative manner, she was
anything but conservative. The first thing I noticed was the leather bondage
collar, followed by the handcuffs. To my up raised eyebrow, she merely shrugged
and smiled enigmatically. After we had ordered drinks, during which the Japanese
waitress exhibited no surprise or curiosity over client five's attire, she
explained she rather frequently wore her signs of masochism. She insisted I
understand that she was not a submissive but a full blooded masochist. She gave
me her interpretation of the difference: a submissive accepted what the dominant
wanted, while a masochist sought out pain for its own sake. The one approached
mistreatment from the passive view, much like a vegetable, while the other was
very active. I didn't disagree outright, but I did observe that some submissives
did originate ideas for their own discomfort. She agreed, but added that they
did so to please the dominant, not necessarily to generate pain for themselves.
Obviously, we made arrangements for client five to visit my plantation. This
occurred within five days. She had said she wanted to endure three things. This,
in itself, was unusual for the prior clients only wanted one thing, but I
encouraged her to reveal her desires. First, she wanted to spend twelve hours in
a pillory. I agreed, realizing that woman was indeed very serious for just six
hours in a pillory would be severe. Secondly, she wished to hang suspended by
her wrists for a minimum of six hours. Lastly, she wished to be placed in a
strict hog-tie for six hours and to be continuously sexually stimulated while
she was in the hog-tie. With no comment as to what seemed to me to be an
excessively ambitious program, I merely agreed, and asked what was to be first.
The wrist suspension was elected. Since it would be so long, we chose to do it
inside. Without a word, she stripped off her clothes, revealing she had her cunt
shaven, with rings in both her nipples and her cunt lips. There was one ring in
each nipple and three rings in each of the lips of her labia. She surprised me
by affixing a smallish ring in her nose. She accepted my recommendation of
padded, leather wrist cuffs; which I quickly wrapped around each of her wrists.
I buckled them tight, and to add a little extra, I put padlocks in each one. She
merely grinned. I then placed an eight foot step ladder under a ring that was at
the end of a three foot chain which was attached to a beam about twelve feet off
the floor. She climb up one side of the ladder and I went up the other. She
raised her wrists to the large ring and I hooked a padlock through the large
ring and the rings on both cuffs, and shoved the shank home, effectively locking
her to the over head beam. When the ladder was removed, she would be secured to
the over head. The three foot length of chain would make it impossible for her
to swing her body upwards to hook her feet over the beam; but, at the same time,
she would be well off the floor. In other words, all she could do would be to
hang. I bade her remain still until I got down off the ladder, then she was to
back down the ladder herself until the slack went out of the chain and I would
then help lift her off the ladder to begin her six hours of suspension. It
didn't work out that way. I climb down the ladder, and, as soon as I had done
so, she jumped off the ladder. This threw her entire weight, but with added
force, on her wrists instantly. All I heard was an "oof," but nothing else. I
said nothing, but began to think that perhaps she would indeed go through all
she had planned. I had been skeptical that she would hang suspended for more
than one hour, let alone six. I left her to hang by herself, but checked back
often. Once, when I asked her how she felt, she suggested I might want to feel
her cunt. I did, and though I expected her to be aroused, I was unprepared for
the dripping nature of her cunt. At the end of three hours, I climb up the
ladder and offered her a drink. She declined, saying she had to pee and anymore
liquid would make it very difficult to hold it. I suggested she simply pee on
the floor, that it could be easily mopped up. She smiled gratefully, and did
drink the liquid. When I returned the next time, there was a large pool of piss
on the floor. While she hung above me, I got a mop and mopped it all up. I then
got a small switch and hit her on the ass ten times. The first stroke surprised
her but she simply hung straight down during the other nine. When I finished,
she said she understood. At the end of five and half hours, I found another pool
of piss, which I mopped up, and I hit her ten more times. At the end of each
half hour, I announced how much time she had been hanging and if she was okay.
Each time, she assured me all was well. When I announced the sixth hour, I asked
her how she felt, and she said fine. Then I suggested that maybe she would want
to extend the time. There was a sharp intake of breath, and her body convulsed.
It was obvious that my question had caused her to orgasm. When finally she
quieted down, and hung limply again, she thanked me, and said she wasn't going
to go anywhere anyway until I let her down, and that the duration of her
suspension was in my hands. Very quickly, I disabused her of that idea. I would
support, but I refused to dictate. I made to pull the ladder under her, to lower
her, but she quickly agreed that she was the one in control of her own destiny
and asked that I let her hang another hour. At the end of seven hours, I did
help her to climb up the ladder; after which I unlocked her wrists. I then
helped her down for her arms were numb.
Part 6
We visited at dinner that night. She thanked me for urging to go for more
and wondered if that was to be my habit. I told her that, yes, that was my
general approach; but I would do so only, if in my professional judgment, she
was capable. She had a normal childhood, though she was an only child. At about
age eight or nine, she and her friends began to engage in games where one or
more of them were tied up. At first, she tied others as often as she was tied;
beginning at about age ten, she had begun to be the one tied up by the other
kids most often. At first, she had protested why she was always the one to be
tied up, but, eventually, she became reconciled to it. Once reconciled, she
began to seek comfort (she was yet too young to seek pleasure) while she was
bound. Fortunately, her friends were as inexperienced as she, so her bondages
were seldom difficult to endure. From time to time, she would daydream about her
situation. Mostly, she thought of herself as the heroine who had been captured
by the bad guys. She was left alone several times, and not infrequently, she
managed to wriggle out of her bondages. They used the backyards of each other,
but, occasionally, they used a nearby woods. One time, when she was twelve, her
two closest neighbors, a boy of her own age and a girl a year older, asked if
she wanted to try to get lose from a special tie-up. Sensing a challenge, and
knowing her friends wouldn't hurt her, she accepted the idea. Very quickly, it
was clear this was to be no ordinary tie-up. They went to the woods where she
was placed with her back against a tree. They began to use yards and yards of
rope. When they finished, they told her to have fun trying to escape as they
thought there was no way she was going to get lose by herself. They were right:
she had no hope of escaping. She just relaxed in her bonds to await the return
of her friends. But they left her there long after they should have returned to
untie her. She began to worry that she might not make it home before her
deadline. She tried again to free herself, and became very frustrated when she
couldn't. And, for the first time, an element of fright entered her mind. Here
she was, a girl helplessly bound to a tree, in a woods where very few people
ever came. At last, her friends came back to untie her. She was angry with her
friends the next day, and didn't talk to them. At lunch at school, her girl
friend asked what was wrong, and she angrily told her friend she was mad because
they had left her so long. Her friend said she was sorry and they wouldn't do it
again. Since she wasn't really angry, she quickly made up with her friend. The
tie-ups continued intermittently over the next two years. She noticed that while
she occasionally was tied by the original group, more and more often it was just
her girlfriend and the boy next door. It was three weeks later when next she
allowed herself to be tied again. She did set a condition; however, that they
would return to untie her before five in the afternoon. Also, since it would be
getting dark soon, she asked that they tie her to the clothes line pole.
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